


Risk

by ephemeraltea



Series: R is for... [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: First Time, M/M, enter: Zevran, eventually, how they got together and stuff, i guess i write fanfic now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8294098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeraltea/pseuds/ephemeraltea
Summary: Zevran isn't sure how to accept gifts, Darrian learns the true consequences of becoming a Warden, and they both start to gravitate together (despite the general judgement from the rest of the party).*Mature for last chapter*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the dialog in here is directly taken from the game, if modified a little to fit my imagination. The dialog I took doesn't belong to me, nor do the characters, and all that jazz.

It had started with the gloves.

  
Zevran hadn’t been traveling with the Warden and his companions for long. He didn’t expect them to trust him or even treat him well -- he was grateful enough to be alive. He was true to his word that he would serve the Warden, and he had fought dutifully at Redcliffe. Honestly, it was a nice change to be cutting down walking corpses -- the thrill of the fight and satisfaction of the kill without nearly as much blood splatter. Zevran had been particularly interested in seeing how Darrian fought on the battlefield when he was an ally instead of a target, and found himself drawn to the Warden’s side on more than one occasion. Maybe it was that they were both rogues, maybe that they were both elves. Maybe it was that Darrian was ridiculously attractive. Either way, Zevran found a connection to Darrian when they fought side by side, like they could anticipate each other’s movements.

  
That night they returned to camp after having rid Redcliffe of the undead horde and found the cause of such mayhem in the heart of the castle. They needed to ready themselves to leave first thing in the morning, to travel to the Circle and ask for help in exorcising the creepy child. Zevran sat a little ways off from the fire -- he knew his presence made most of their party uncomfortable -- so he was surprised when Darrian not only brought him a bowl of soup, but sat next to him with his own.

  
“Hungry?” he asked as he handed Zevran the bowl.

  
“Thank you, I did not want to impose,” said Zevran politely.

  
“It’s not imposing,” sad Darrian. “You probably saved my life in Redcliffe.”

  
Zevran shrugged.

  
“I did also try to kill you,” he said, “and not that very long ago, at that. How do you know this is not some ploy to get into your good graces, only to perform a marvelous act of betrayal?”

  
“Maybe,” said Darrian. “But I think you’re smart enough to have just let me die at the hands of the zombies if that’s what you wanted.”

  
“I don’t think your friends agree,” said Zevran, nodding his head toward Leliana and Alistair, who were sitting together near the fire and actively glaring at him.

  
“Ignore them,” said Darrian, his mouth full of stew. “Let’s talk instead. Can I ask -- why did you want to leave the Crows, exactly?”

  
Zevran expected small talk, but Darrian surprised him once again. Perhaps it was that he was caught off guard, but Zevran found himself answering Darrian honestly. Darrian continued to ask more questions, prompting along the story of Zevran’s early life. It was strange for Zevran. No one had ever been so direct with him, or acted so interested in what he had to say. He felt himself beginning to relax, to drop some of his performance-like tendencies. Sooner than he would have thought possible, Zevran found himself speaking of things he had never told anyone, like how the smell of leather reminded him of home. How he had almost spent his last coin on a beautiful pair of leather boots, and how he regretted now that he would never get the chance to return home to buy them.

  
Darrian seemed particularly interested when Zevran told the story about running off to try and live with the Dalish.

  
“I always dreamt of that, too!” he said, placing his empty bowl beside him. “Living in the Alienage, that was pretty much the fairy-tale, escapist dream everyone had -- run off to the Dalish, live freely among nature. When Alistair told me about the treaties and gave the option to go to the Dalish, I…I was so desperate to finally get a chance to go that I lead our group there, instead of to Redcliffe. I….”

  
“From what we heard, the Arl had been sick for weeks,” said Zevran when Darrian trailed off. “Don’t fault yourself.”

  
“How did you know I was faulting myself?”

  
“I know that look,” said Zevran. “Intimately. Anyway, tell me -- what did you think of life at the Dalish camp?”

  
“It...wasn’t what I expected, honestly,” said Darrian.

  
“The reality did not live up at all to the fantasies I had constructed as a boy, either,” said Zevran. “I didn’t expect to feel so rejected by my own kind -- they didn’t even consider me part of their own kind. I was a -- what did they call it?”

  
“Flat-ear,” said Darrian. “The camp we went to called me that, too. It’s frustrating, feeling so stuck between worlds. The humans hate us for being elves, the elves hate us for being raised among humans.”

  
Zevran felt a kinship with Darrian in that moment, which may have been what prompted him to do something then that he hadn’t done in years. He spoke of his mother. Of how she was Dalish, how she had run from her clan to marry a poor Antivan. Of her gloves that he had treasured. Darrian had let out a soft sigh when Zevran had told him that the gloves had been taken away by the Crows. Then Darrian’s expression changed abruptly to one that Zevran didn’t understand. Darrian jumped up and jogged to his tent without another word.

  
When he returned, he was holding a pair of gloves.

  
“I know it’s not the same,” said Darrian “What you lost can never be replaced, but I…er, found these at the Dalish camp--”

  
Darrian stopped speaking as Zevran reached out slowly and touched the gloves.

  
“I...Maker’s breath,” said Zevran, his voice betraying him and wavering the slightest bit as he took the gloves into his own hands. “It is like my mothers. The leather was less thick and it had more embroidery...but these are very close. And quite handsome.”

  
Zevran stayed quiet for a time, admiring the gloves.

  
“Are you okay?” said Darrian, and Zevran laughed heartily.

  
“Do I seem surprised? Perhaps I am. No one has simply...given me a gift before.” Zevran  
looked Darrian straight in the eye and said, “Thank you.”

  
“Wait, never?”

  
“What?” said Zevran.

“You’ve never been given a gift before?” said Darrian, incredulous.

  
“Well, I’ve received nice things,” said Zevran. “But never without the giver asking for something in return -- or are you --”

  
“Don’t make a sex joke out of this,” said Darrian, cutting him off. “Maker, Zevran, never getting a present in your life? That’s fucking depressing.”

 

* * *

 

 

For Darrian, it had become a mission.

  
“Oh, shiny! Here you go, Zev!” called Darrian as he tossed the bracelet to Zevran.

  
In the couple of days that it has been since giving Zevran the gloves, Darrian had taken every opportunity imaginable to bestow him with more presents. Mostly it was ridiculous small things that Darrian had picked off of corpses or out of badly locked chests. A lot of it was stuff that Darrian wasn’t even sure Zevran would like -- but it was the principle of the thing that mattered, not the objects themselves.

  
“You have years of present-receiving to make up for,” said Darrian when Zevran had protested the first few times. “And part of presents is getting shit you don’t actually want and pretending that you like it anyway. So suck it up.”

  
Darrian had smirked and Zevran had grinned in spite of himself and taken each present that Darrian had forced on him.

  
“I do like shiny things,” Zevran had admitted when he accepted the first gold ring.

  
Darrian laughed heartily at that.

  
“Of course you do, you’re a Crow.”

  
Darrian had kept that in mind -- after all, even though what he gave didn’t matter as much as the giving, he would rather Zevran like the gifts. He was only partially teasing him, after all. He really did want Zevran to like him.

  
And Zevran in his part seemed to be warming up to the attention. He caught the bracelet and examined it.

  
“I will add it to my nest of sparkly things,” he said.

  
And after they had escaped the Fade, after he had seen Zevran tied to a rack and tortured, his most vulnerable memories used against him by that despicable demon, Darrian spent more money than he ever spent in his life on a single bottle of Antivan Brandy that Bodahn miraculously had in his stores. He brought the bottle to Zevran in an effort to assuage his ghostly expression. He asked Zevran to tell him stories as they drank. Zevran looked so beautiful in the firelight that Darrian felt his stomach flip.

  
“In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect,” Zevran had said after Darrian had expressed surprise at Zevran’s somewhat glamorous stories. “It gets you wealth. It gets you women...and men, or whatever it is you might fancy.”

  
“And what do you fancy, exactly?” said Darrian, more boldly than he might have without the taste of brandy on his lips.

  
Zevran had smirked, his eyes flicking from Darrian’s eyes to his lips and back again.

  
“I fancy many things,” Zevran had said. “I fancy things that are beautiful and things that are strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting. Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

  
No. Darrian was far, far from offended.

  
But neither of them made a move to push things further that night. They were tired, and drunk, and the horrors of their past so recently relived itched at their skin. Tonight was for stories.

  
They stayed up sitting by the fire long after the others had gone to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Darrian couldn’t help it. He liked Zevran. He was funny and fiery and so unabashed about his identity. And, as it turned out, he was living up to his word to work for Darrian wholeheartedly. Zevran fought by Darrian’s side ferociously. When Darrian fell, it was Zevran who was first to him, picking him back up. Stranger still, they had known each other for only a handful of days, and yet when they fought it was like there was some kind of psychic link between them. Zevran was the first to know when Darrian needed help and the quickest to his side, even quicker than Alistair.

  
So when Alistair had grabbed Darrian’s arm and pulled him aside to scold him the morning after Darrian had given Zevran the brandy, he didn’t appreciate it.

  
“He literally tried to kill you,” Alistair hissed. “And you’re staying up with him all night and giving him presents?!”

  
“Why can’t you just give him a chance?” said Darrian, ripping his arm from Alistair’s grip. Alistair looked shocked and a little hurt.

  
“You’re my best friend, you know that?” Alistair said. “I’ve really come to consider you that. I’m trying to protect you.”

  
Darrian pressed his lips together, trying to contain the anger boiling up inside him. Alistair had just called him his best friend and he wanted to find joy in that. But he needed to find a way to convey to Alistair the double-edged meaning of his words.

  
“You’re my best friend, too,” he started. “But look -- you say that, but given any change in circumstances -- the smallest change in my family’s history -- and I would have been Zevran. Do you get that? You have no idea what it’s like -- what we go through. You have no idea the struggles my people have suffered. And if my path had altered, if I had been bought and raised to be an assassin -- would you have killed me? Someone who has all the potential to be your best friend? Would you have judged me on sight and mowed me down, even if I asked for mercy? Would you have left me to bleed out on the ground?”

  
“That’s -- that’s not fair,” said Alistair, but he looked unsure.

  
“Isn’t it?” said Darrian harshly. “You have no right, Alistair. You don’t have to be his friend, but you have no right to judge me for trying to give him a chance.”

  
Darrian had hoped that would be the end of the conversation, but that night after Morrigan had successfully completed the exorcism and saved Connor, Alistair took him aside once more. They walked away from the castle, out along the water.

  
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Alistair began, which was ominous enough.

  
Then be began to speak about the blight -- not the one ravaging the world, but the one eating at his very blood and bones. Darrian didn’t speak as he began to understand. He felt his breath grow more shallow as Alistair explained the true consequences of the Joining.

  
“It’s just -- we don’t have as much time as everyone else,” said Alistair. “So...I don’t know, just don’t give it away to anyone, okay?”

  
But Darrian was done listening. He was done talking. He had quickened his pace and was walking away from Alistair.

  
“Darrian!” Alistair called after him. He tried to follow, but Darrian was much smaller and much faster. He broke into a sprint, disappearing into the trees.

  
Thirty years. That was how long until his death sentence.

  
He wasn’t sure how long he had been running when the trees broke. Darrian found himself on a cliff overlooking the lake. He sank to his knees, bit into his palms, and screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

Zevran didn’t know what had happened and he wasn’t sure it was his right to ask, but Darrian seemed off as they traveled to Haven. He was fighting recklessly and with little subtlety, and it was throwing Zevran off his own game. He took every opportunity to get to Darrian’s side when he was needed, but he wasn’t always fast enough. There was one particularly gruesome fight when darkspawn ambushed them on the road, and Darrian was knocked unconscious. Zevran had stood over his body, fighting determinedly until all of the darkspawn were dead and they were safe. The others seemed surprised by his actions. Zevran shrugged and walked away, allowing Alistair to revive Darrian with potions.

Darrian wasn’t talking much, either. He would listen and respond to the rest of the group, but only as minimally as he had to, and with far less expression than Zevran was used to seeing from him, even in the couple of weeks that they had known each other.

It was a long and bleak trek to Haven, and it was a grim task they were on to save the Arl of Redcilffe. Perhaps that could be the cause of Darrian’s change of mood, though Zevran doubted it. He began to observe the others more closely and noticed that Alistair would dart worried looks toward Darrian’s direction every once in awhile, despite his attempts at his usual cheery disposition.

Their greeting at Haven was odd and suspicious. It was clear they were unwelcome there. Somehow, Darrian had turned on his charm enough to grant them passage to the tavern to “gather supplies,” but Zevran was not sure what the plan would be from there. Surely they would be watched closely until they left. Indeed, when they entered the tavern, the eyes of the few locals inside were trained on them constantly.

Still, this wasn’t anything they weren’t used to. Darrian nudged Zevran and gave the barest of glances toward a small chest just inside. Zevran nodded. On his way following Morrigan and Alistair to the bar, he “tripped” on the leg of one of the tables, knocking into Alistair and pushing him on top of an older woman, spilling her drink.

“Oh, Maker, I’m so sorry!” Alistair began sincerely.

Zevran could have been the one who careened into the woman and acted the part easily enough, but Alistair’s genuine care and awkwardness made it much more believable. Alistair flustered, trying to dab at the woman with his chainmail, making the situation so much worse. Zevran only just held his laughter. No one saw Darrian picking the lock on the chest.

“Sweet Andraste,” he heard Darrian hiss. “Zevran, come here!”

Darrian sounded more excited and upbeat than he had in days. Curious, Zevran followed Darrian away from the growingly more ridiculous scene (Alistair had tried to use Morrigan’s cloak to clean the woman up, to the gratuitous protest of both women). They stopped in a doorway leading to the next room, just out of site.

“Zevran, _look!_ ” said Darrian as he held out his hands toward Zevran.

In each one was a beautiful, supple leather boot. Zevran’s mouth fell open. Then he laughed, feeling giddy, and took a big breath through his nose.

“Hmmm, that smell! This is Antivan leather, isn’t it! I would know that anywhere!”

“They were in the chest! They’re yours!”

Darrian looked hugely proud of himself as he pushed the boots into Zevran’s arms. Zevran smiled widely and held the boots to his face.

“What are you waiting for?” Darrian said. “Try them on!”

“But I’m not finished admiring them yet! Can you smell that?” said Zevran, taking an exaggeratedly large sniff.

“Quit smelling them like that, it’s creepy,” said Darrian. He was laughing. Zevran hadn’t heard Darrian laugh since the night with the brandy. It filled Zevran with a strange joy that he was the one making Darrian laugh.

“Like rotting flesh. Just like back in Antiva City,” Zevran continued in an effort to keep that beautiful laughter going. “Now if only you could find me a prostitute or two, a bowl of fish chowder, and a corrupt politician, I’d really feel like I was home!”

Darrian pushed Zevran into a chair in the next room and slapped at his hands, pushing the boots away from his nose. Zevran laughed and proceeded to switch out his boots.

“And they fit as well. Marvelous!”

Just then they heard more commotion from the main room. The barkeep was raising his voice, asking where the two elves had gone. He appeared in the doorway looking angry, but also anxious.

“You can’t be in there!” said the barkeep fiercely.

“Apologies,” Zevran began. “We were only -- “

“I said get out!” the man snapped.

“Are you okay?” said Darrian curiously.

Zevran didn’t miss the furtive glance the barkeep gave to the back corner.

“What are you hiding?” said Zevran, just as Darrian started to move toward that corner.

The barkeep lashed out, striking at Darrian. Zevran leapt behind the man, grasping around his throat in a choke hold. The man fought ferociously, calling on the other bar patrons to help him. And just like that they were in a bar brawl to the death.

“Maker’s breath,” said Alistair when the fight was over. “What was that about?”

Darrian pointed wordlessly to the blood covered altar in the corner. His face was stern once again.

“I don’t like whatever it is these people are up to,” said Darrian. “Let’s go figure out what it is.”

“It” turned out to be a cult. Zevran hated cultists. There was no bargaining with them. They fought for what they believed to be their righteous destiny. There was no reasoning with people like that. Eventually -- after they had cut their way through dozens of cultists -- they found brother Genitivi, hurt but alive. Darrian looked a mess after the last fight. He had a huge gash on his forehead and he had to keep wiping blood out of his eyes, but he wouldn’t slow down. He swatted Alistair away when he tried to heal him.

“Tell me what you know,” Darrian said to Genitivi.

Darrian had reached a new level of intensity that Zevran hadn’t seen in him before. It was a little sexy, but also a little disturbing. He pressed Genitivi for every piece of information he knew, then sent him back to Denerim, despite the man’s protests to see his life’s work completed.

“We’ll see you in Denerim,” was all Darrian replied firmly, then walked away.

“Warden, wait,” said Zevran. Darrian at least stopped to look at Zevran, which was more to be said than the attention he was lending to Alistair or Morrigan. “Sit down, you’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said, turning to go once more.

“Darrian, you are bleeding from your head, _sit down_ ,” said Zevran more firmly.

Maybe it was the use of his first name, maybe it was because he knew he needed to be mended up. Either way, Darrian sat. Zevran pulled out an injury kit from his pack and knelt between Darrian’s knees. He worked slowly; he wasn’t used to healing other people. He felt his skin prickle at the closeness and he found himself enjoying the feel of his fingers ghosting across Darrian’s forehead.

There was no doubt the man was beautiful. Zevran wasn’t sure why he hadn’t tried harder to bed him yet. He flirted, yes, but never put in that extra effort to initiate something physical. He wanted Darrian, he was certain of that. Maybe he wasn’t certain about what it would mean, to sleep with someone and have them still be there the next day. To potentially have someone to sleep with on a regular basis. Zevran had only done that once before, and --

And he didn’t want to think about that.

Anyway, Zevran had grown to truly like Darrian, and respect him even more. Maybe that was the most frightening part of all.

When he had finished cleaning and mending Darrian’s wound, Zevran found his fingertips wandering down across his cheekbone. Darrian closed his eyes and sighed.

“Are you okay?” Zevran said in a low voice.

Darrian sighed once more (less contentedly, he noted) and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said softly. Then he stood up and lead them onward.

Alistair met Zevran’s gaze as they followed and gave him a nod. It was the most positive reception he’d gotten from Alistair since joining their party. Zevran nodded back and hoped they understood each other.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of their journey to the Sacred Ashes was rough. Even apart from the near death experiences, killing yet more cultists, and narrowly avoiding a dragon -- after all of that, they were confronted with an infuriating...thing. Zevran did not know what to call him. An infernal spirit, he supposed. How else could he have known so much?

“I bid you welcome, pilgrim,” said the armored spirit as they approached. He spoke directly to Darrian and it didn’t surprise Zevran at all. “You have come to honor Andraste. And you shall, if you prove yourself worthy.”

“But what if I’m not worthy?” Darrian’s voice was not anxious or hopeful -- it was utterly flat and dull. He sounded so tired.

“It is not my place to decide your worthiness,” said the Guardian without emotion. “The gauntlet does that. If you are deemed worthy you will see the urn and be permitted to take a small pinch of the ashes for yourself. If not….”

“Alright, let’s get this over with, then,” said Darrian. With an extended sigh, he made to move past the Guardian.

“Before you go, there is something I must ask,” said the Guardian as he held out a hand. “I see that the path that lead you here was not easy.”

Zevran’s attention was caught as the spirit spoke. Darrian hadn’t spoken to Zevran about why he had become a Grey Warden. When the Guardian prompted about the friend Darrian could not save from being raped, the pain and guilt that radiated off of Darrian affected Zevran more than he would have expected.

“Yes,” Darrian had said in response to the Guardian. “I failed her.”

That was ridiculous, and Zevran spoke as much. He had no interest in this spirit and his encouragement for self-flagellation. He barely listened as the spirit went on to torment Alistair.

“And the Antivan Elf,” said the spirit, turning to him.

“Oh, is it my turn now? Hurrah, I am so excited.”

“Many have died at your hand,” said the spirit, “but is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of--”

Zevran felt all of the blood drain out of him. It must have been pooling on the floor beneath his feet, the chill that ran through him was so fierce he could have been turned to stone.

“How do you know about that?” he hissed.

“I know much, it is allowed to me. The question stands, however. Do you regret --”

“Yes, the answer is yes, if that’s what you wish to know,” snapped Zevran, cutting the demon off before it could speak her name. “I do. Now move on.”

Zevran walked away. He didn’t know where he was going, the door behind the demon was still barred. He walked to the corner instead, while Morrigan effortlessly shrugged the questions off. Why hadn’t he just done that? Why had he allowed it to trick him into its games?

Zevran stood staring at the wall until he heard movement behind him.

“It’s me,” said Darrian, before he touched Zevran’s shoulder. Zevran appreciated that.

Darrian didn’t ask if he was okay. Zevran appreciated that even more.

Instead he ran his hand down Zevran’s arm and lightly caressed his knuckles. Zevran closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was very confused.

“We’ve got to keep moving,” said Darrian quietly. “But we’re almost through. Stay with me.”

Zevran nodded once and turned around.

“That thing was an asshole.”

“Tell me about it.”

Neither of them were up to smiling at that moment, but Zevran could feel a ghost of a grin in his chest. Darrian was a strange and powerful man. They walked side by side, passed where the Guardian had dissipated and through the door.

They were met by riddles, then the shadow versions of themselves (which was a strangely cathartic fight for Zevran), then a horrible bridge puzzle. By the time they reached the room with the ashes, they were all exhausted. Still, true to his form all the way through, Darrian was the one to figure out the final step. They removed their armor and stepped through the fire.

Maker, Darrian was stunning.

It may have been that last visual more than anything else that pushed Zevran into action after they had traveled back to camp.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Zevran said as he approached Darrian after they had eaten. “Look at you! Your weary stance, the dark circles under your eyes. Poor man, all this constant walking has gotten to you. Do you know what you need?”

“Oh?” said Darrian, smirking as he placed his empty dinner bowl with the others near Bodahn’s cart. “This I have to hear.”

“My thought is this,” said Zevran, taking a small step closer as Darrian straightened and turned toward him. “We retire to your tent and I show you the sort of massage skills that one only learns growing up in an Antivan whorehouse.”

Zevran watched closely for Darrian’s reaction, anticipating that moment when the shock at Zevran’s forwardness would part Darrian’s lips into a soft “oh” as his face flushed and he looked away shyly. That’s usually how it went with these things, Zevran had found.

But instead Darrian had just sighed softly, his shoulders relaxing, and said sincerely, “That sounds wonderful.”

Zevran was taken aback by the simplicity of Darrian’s answer. He had been expecting at least a little surprise. After all, they had never been so direct with each other until this moment. And there were many moments that Zevran could have gotten Darrian into bed -- the night with the brandy, surely (although maybe not -- they had gotten quite drunk). But Zevran hadn’t put his full energy into bedding Darrian. He had to admit, he’d liked the chase so far. He liked the subtlety. It was like a dance, although one where you could never be sure exactly what your partner is thinking. Maybe they had been more on the same page throughout their interactions than Zevran had thought -- or could it be that Darrian really thought Zevran was only offering a massage?

“A willing victim it is,” he said, suppressing his smile. He had to be sure. “And if I might ask, if the opportunity to proceed past the massage should present itself?”

Darrian’s eyes smoldered in a way that told Zevran that they were most definitely on the same page.

“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Darrian said, and Zevran felt his stomach heat and his fingers itch. He wanted to push Darrian to the ground right there.

“Then why are we still talking?” said Zevran, his voice low. He stepped toward Darrian --

“Hey, guys!” said Alistair, bounding up to them like a puppy, clueless as ever.

Darrian had been leaning toward Zevran, but froze at Alistair’s voice. He blinked rapidly and took a deep breath.

“There’s a spring at the base of the mountain, Morrigan said she would heat it for us!” said Alistair.

“Really?” said Darrian incredulously. That seemed to shake him from his daze, which was upsetting -- Zevran had liked seeing him in a daze.

“I am capable of the occasional nicety,” said Morrigan from the fire. Her hearing was eerily good sometimes.

“Why do you look so reluctant?” said Alistair, and there was that worried look again. “C’mon, a _hot bath!_ After being freezing and almost dying at Haven, we all deserve it.”

And he took Darrian by the upper arm and began to lead him away. Darrian looked at Zevran, than at the direction Alistair was leading him, then back again. Zevran had to admit that a hot bath sounded marvelous. He hadn’t been warm since he arrived in this country.

“A bath it is,” said Zevran, walking alongside the Grey Wardens.

“A short bath,” said Darrian in a low voice to Zevran.


	3. Chapter 3

They walked into the trees at the base of the mountain. Alistair had kept up friendly chatter the whole way, which wasn’t at all out of the ordinary for him. What _was_ strange, though, was how Alistair was attempting to engage Zevran in conversation. It was a stretch -- the only topic Alistair seemed to be able to come up with was the weather -- but it was an interesting turn of events. When Alistair had first pulled them away, Darrian thought he was trying to get between him and Zevran once more, but it appeared that Alistair might be entirely unaware of what was actually going on between them -- that he didn’t realize that when Darrian got upset, it was because he wanted to be more than Zevran's friend. That didn’t really matter, though. Alistair was trying to give Zevran a chance. Alistair smiled at Darrian in the moonlight, an apologetic sort of look on his face. Darrian smiled and nodded back.

When they arrived at a small spring, Morrigan told them to stand back. She sat on her knees, placing her hands in the water and casting fire spells until the surface was steaming.

“I am going behind this boulder,” said Morrigan.

“There’s no need for modesty, Morrigan,” said Zevran. “The trials at Haven left nothing to the imagination, as it were -- and you well surpass the imagination.”

“Tis not modesty, elf,” said Morrigan coldly. “But a desire for privacy and quiet. Now leave me in peace.”

“Well, that was mostly nice anyway,” said Alistair after she had disappeared. He walked behind a tree to begin removing his armor, leaving Zevran and Darrian in the open.

Nakedness had never been much of an issue for Darrian. Normally, he was able to compartmentalize enough that it wasn’t a problem when he inevitably ended up naked or near-naked in front of other men when bathing. The first couple of weeks being on the road since leaving home, he had been more self-conscious -- but that was when he had still harbored a bit of a crush on Alistair. Since learning that Alistair was both a virgin and irredeemably straight, that problem had pretty much vanished. No doubt Alistair was an attractive man, but Darrian was able to remove the possibility of any future sexual context, so seeing him naked didn’t elicit the same reaction anymore.

But then Zevran joined the group. Currently, he was slowly peeling off his armor, maintaining eye-contact with Darrian the whole time. Within moments there was a supremely beautiful near-naked elf in front of Darrian, one who had openly propositioned him for sex less than ten minutes before. The bottom half of his body was already vehemently regretting ever having walked away from camp. But the rest of his body was covered in dirt and sweat and blood. Darrian took a deep breath and began removing his own armor. He held Zevran’s gaze as he did so, too -- he wanted to make sure Zevran knew he wasn’t going to back down.

There was a loud splash as Alistair entered the pool. He groaned loudly as he settled into the water, entwining his fingers behind his head.

“What are you two taking so long for?” said Alistair. “It won’t stay hot forever!”

Darrian had grown to love Alistair as a brother, but _Maker_ he was clueless.

Darrian turned away before Zevran finished undressing fully -- there was only so much self control a man could have -- but he quite enjoyed removing his underclothes with his back to Zevran and walking slowly toward the pool.

He heard a soft grunt from Zevran’s direction and felt smugly satisfied.

Darrian sank into the warm water, and it was bliss. It was so wonderful that he momentarily stopped thinking about Zevran’s muscles gleaming in the moonlight.

Momentarily.

Darrian didn’t look as Zevran climbed over the rocks to sink into the water. Zevran sat directly across from Darrian and held his gaze. Darrian never would have expected eye contact to feel so intense. He felt like he was having a whole secret conversation with Zevran while Alistair continued to talk about...whatever it was he was talking about now. Darrian wasn’t listening. He was just looking at Zevran and feeling his skin prickle under the returning gaze. He leaned back, releasing his hair from its usual ponytail and allowing it to soak, then watched as Zevran did the same, undoing his braids. Darrian was captivated by the swiftness of his fingers.

“It’s starting to get cold,” said Zevran after about ten minutes, still holding eye contact with Darrian. It was fairly dark, but Darrian thought he could see the corners of Zevran’s mouth twitch upward. “Time for bed, I think.”

Zevran rose slowly from the water and for a moment looked like a portrait out of a romance story. Then the cold registered in Zevran’s expression as the air hit him and he wrapped his arms around himself reflexively as he spoke rapidly in Antivan -- cursing, no doubt. It was incredibly endearing. And Darrian couldn’t wait to warm him.

“Just a couple more minutes,” Alistair whined. “Though I suppose the water is going cold. What do you think?” he asked Darrian.

Darrian felt lightheaded as he watched Zevran dry himself and dress in a light linen shirt and trousers. Zevran looked once over his shoulder at Darrian, then continued back to camp without waiting for them.

“Yeah, cold,” said Darrian distractedly. “I mean, yes, we should -- I’m really tired.”

“Yes, you sound exhausted,” called Morrigan from her section of the spring.

“Goodnight, Morrigan,” Darrian called back as he pulled himself out of the water and quickly began to dry and dress himself.

“I’m sure it will be,” she called back.

“She’s so strange sometimes,” Alistair whispered as he toweled his hair. A pebble flew out of the darkness and struck him in the back of the head. “Hey!”

Darrian walked with Alistair back to camp, trying to keep at a normal pace and not rush. He didn’t want Alistair to ask him what he was hurrying for. He wasn’t ashamed at all of his attraction to men, but it wasn’t a conversation he felt like having with Alistair right then.

“Well, that was an okay ending to an exhausting day,” said Alistair. He stretched and yawned as they neared camp. “I’m going to sleep like a baby tonight. Watch is settled, right?”

“Sten said they’re all set. I don’t know what rotation they figured out, but I know we aren’t on it.”

“That’s all I care about.”

“And...thanks, for including Zevran tonight,” said Darrian. He really did appreciate it, even if the timing was horrid.

Alistair shrugged.

“The way he’s been fighting for us, and how he helped you in Haven -- I dunno, I figured you’re right and I was being an asshole. He’s growing on me.”

Darrian bumped his shoulder against Alistair's and Alistair bumped back.

As they reached the edge of camp, Alistair bid him goodnight and veered off toward his tent. Darrian took a deep breath and scanned the camp. Almost all of their party had gone to sleep, apart from Shale who was standing watch by the fire. At first he didn’t see Zevran anywhere, then he saw a shadow move behind his own tent, near the edge of the other side of camp.

Maybe Darrian didn't know what he was doing, he thought as he neared his tent. Maybe everyone was right and he should be more wary given that a few weeks ago he had almost been assassinated. But Zevran was standing there looking so strong and beautiful, and Darrian wanted him. He thought back to the night when they sat by the fire. He thought about how he had spent so much of that night staring at Zevran’s mouth.

He was tired of staring.

Zevran smirked as Darrian approached, opening his mouth to say something clever, his expression turning to mild surprise and his voice catching as Darrian didn’t hesitate to close the distance between them. Darrian kissed Zevran with more urgency than he had ever felt in his life, even more than the adrenaline that came with a fight. It was a hard kiss that Zevran turned deep, sucking on Darrian’s bottom lip, then pushing his tongue into his mouth. The kiss was fire and it melted Darrian where he stood. Zevran held the back of Darrian’s head with one hand and encircled his waist with his other arm, using his leverage to maneuver the both of them into the tent. All the patience and subtlety of their interactions leading up to this moment were abandoned. They clawed at each other’s clothing desperately. They didn’t speak -- there didn’t seem to be a need to, they listened to each other bodies as they did when they were fighting side-by-side, anticipating the other’s movements. Darrian had had sex before, but it had never been like this.

Zevran had let out a satisfying groan when Darrian had flipped onto his hands and knees, bearing himself. He should have felt vulnerable -- he usually did. Maybe this time the intensity of his desire overtook the vulnerability. Zevran prepared him with oils he had brought from his own tent and Darrian could tell he was trying to go slow, that he liked to make an art of this kind of thing, but now wasn’t the time. Darrian moaned and pushed against Zevran’s fingers and the whimper Zevran gave in return was the most beautiful sound Darrian had ever heard. He felt Zevran move behind him, felt as he lined their bodies together. He sighed softly as Zevran pushed into him, relishing the feeling of fullness, and when they moved together Darrian felt primal. He pushed his body back, wanting more. Zevran grabbed him around the waist and pulled Darrian with him as he sat back on his heels. Darrian sat up, grinding himself into Zevran’s lap, reaching behind to grab the back of Zevran’s neck to steady himself. He could feel Zevran’s breath in his ear as he laughed, a purely joyous sound. Darrian went into sensation overload. His mind turned off all linear patterns of thought and all that played in his head was a chorus of _yes, yes, yes._

Darrian collapsed onto his stomach when they were both spent, the occasional aftershock coursing through his body. Zevran pulled out of him and they both groaned. Darrian sighed deeply, resting his head on his folded arms.

“How are you, dear Warden?” said Zevran lightly.

Darrian grunted and said, “I don’t think I can make fun of you for your bragging anymore.”

Zevran laughed again and it filled Darrian’s heart. He felt as Zevran moved to straddle his back, his hands beginning to move smoothly over Darrian’s skin.

“What are you doing?” Darrian asked, muffled through his arms.

“Well, I did promise you a massage,” said Zevran. “And while I absolutely offered it with the intention of sex, I meant it when I said you look like you could use one.”

“You don’t have to,” said Darrian softly.

“I want to,” said Zevran, and he sounded sincere.

Darrian felt as Zevran drizzled oil onto his back and began to run his hands more firmly along his muscles, working out knots. Darrian felt as tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding began to melt away. It felt incredible.

“See? I knew this would happen eventually,” Zevran said as he worked. “I should have warned you right from the moment you refused to kill me. It was inevitable.”

“You’re practically a public menace,” said Darrian, burying his smile in his arms.

“It’s true. They used to issue warnings about me at the Antivan border. Ah, the good old days.”

They lapsed into silence. Darrian was starting to feel incredibly relaxed, more so since -- when was the last time he had felt relaxed, really? Not since leaving the Alienage, for certain. And there wasn’t that much relaxing to be had in the Alienage, either, especially after he had been betrothed.

“So then,” Zevran continued after a few minutes as he worked on Darrian’s lower back, and Darrian sensed an odd hesitation in his voice. “As the priestess famously said to the handsome actor: what now?”

Darrian was taken a little taken aback by the question -- both in that Zevran was the one to ask it, and in that he wasn’t sure about his answer. He liked Zevran and he loved how he felt in this moment. But part of what made him feel as he did was the freedom from the pressure of having to _be_ someone, to have expectations placed upon him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” said Darrian after a pause.

“Allow me to make it simple for you, my Grey Warden. What comes next is entirely up to you. I was raised to take my pleasures where they could be found, for they do not come very often. I shall ask nothing more of you than you are willing to give.”

It was the perfect answer, exactly what Darrian had thought he wanted to hear, but something didn’t sit right with him. He wasn’t sure how to define it.

“So easy come easy go?” he said before he could stop himself.

“One might look at it that way,” said Zevran. “Is this so terrible?”

“No,” said Darrian, sighing and trying to let go of the feeling that had momentarily taken over. “It’s nice having a break from all the…”

“Weight of the world?” said Zevran when Darrian had trailed off. “I can feel it in your shoulders, like rocks. Also, I find it strange -- if you don’t mind my asking, you’ve had your rather glorious back to me for a long while now, and you haven’t once flinched. You do recall all of the stories I’ve told you about seducing my targets, yes?”

“Is this where you stab me in the back?” Darrian said.

“Luckily, no, it is not. I just expected a man like you to be more on your guard, is all. You are lucky that it’s me sitting on you right now, and not some other handsome Crow. But I ask because -- again, it is strange. I’ve paid attention to your fighting since we left Redcliffe. You have been more careless than when I met you. To me, it appears less as though you aren’t afraid of death and more as though you don’t care whether it comes for you or not.”

“You’re blunt.”

“You already knew this about me,” said Zevran, digging his thumbs along the edges of Darrian’s spine.

“I’ve got a death sentence, anyway,” said Darrian after a few minutes of pressing his eyes into his folded arms. “I found out -- the Joining -- becoming a Warden -- it means a cap on my life. Alistair told me at Redcliffe. Thirty years, and my poisoned blood will take me. But not before I apparently go so mad from it that I walk freely to my death at the hands of Deep Roads darkspawn. So why should I be careful now? Why shouldn’t I get in bed with an assassin? It’d be a happier death.”

Zevran’s hands stilled as Darrian spoke. He stayed silent and still for a long time. Eventually, his hands began to caress Darrian’s back once more, though more softly than before.

“Allow me to say this, just to be clear,” said Zevran eventually. “I am no longer in the business of attempting to kill you. Not only would it gain me little at this point, it also happens to be _incredibly hard_. The die is cast, so to speak, and cast rather well, I might add.” He ran his hands along Darrian’s backside and Darrian let out a dry laugh.

“As for your blood,” Zevran continued, “thirty years is more than many of us get. That will be little comfort now, but it will be comfort eventually, I hope. You are alive now.”

Darrian felt a kiss between his shoulder blades, then on his neck. He turned his head and Zevran guided him onto his back, taking Darrian’s face into his hands and kissing him deeply, slower and with more care than before.

“We might as well make the most of it.”


End file.
